


Charlie & Harry, Sittin' In A Tree

by Elle Gray (Elle_Gray)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Boys Kissing, Charlie Weasley is a sex god, Charlie is ripped, Coming In Pants, Community: hp_drizzle, Cuddling & Snuggling, Draco is a seductive brat, Dry Humping, Experimentation, Frottage, Gay Mentor Charlie Weasley, Grey Joggers, HP Drizzle Fest 2019, Harry is hard af, M/M, Misuse of Yoga as a seduction tool, Oral Sex, Powerful Harry, Pre-Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Quidditch, Rain, Talking, The Burrow (Harry Potter), Trackie Bottoms, Trapdoor, Trapped, biscuits - Freeform, freak storm, omg they were roommates, treehouse, whisky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-08-19 21:03:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20216248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_Gray/pseuds/Elle%20Gray
Summary: Christmas at the Burrow is a welcome break from the pressure of eighth year and all that it entails. Classes Harry's not prepared for, a malaise he can't quite shake, and a feeling like maybe his roommate might be up to something (like seducing him). And Charlie? Charlie is a welcome break from Harry's right hand.





	Charlie & Harry, Sittin' In A Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chibaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibaken/gifts).

> This is for my pals in the 'Charlie is a gateway drug' club. Thanks to H for the Official Beta, and the rest of you for your enthusiasm xxxxx

Christmas at the Burrow is a subdued affair this time around. The decorations are the same, the billion twinkly lights in place, the tree robust and fragrant and anchored to the floor beneath an unholy amount of presents. The difference is in the feel of it. The sense of slight wrongness, the edge of sadness in every smile. They don't avoid the pain, and Harry loves them for it, loves the feeling of acceptance that of course they're sad, of course things aren't the same, nor will they ever be. He's allowed to mourn, to stare blankly into the depths of the fire and say nothing for hours at a time. No one tells him to smile, or cheer up or look on the bright side. No one bothers him, and he bothers no one with the things in his head.  
  
Because it isn't all about Fred, and Tonks, and Remus. It's not just how weird it feels to go back to school, where they fought, and people were tortured, killed, the dead laid out where they ate their dinner. That’s a very straightforward thing to deal with. Hurt, sadness, anger. Not easy, but simple, uncomplicated. What’s causing him the most confusion is the tiny little flame of something else that's been put there by his new roommate. A trifling thing, with no place amongst the aftermath of war, and yet… there it is.  
  
A distraction. Needling. Stroking. A movement in his periphery. A strange taste in his mouth. Something else.  
  
'Harry,' Charlie's voice snaps him out of his reverie. 'Fancy a bit of a fly through the orchard?' He's standing on the threshold of the lounge, one big freckled hand wrapped around the doorframe, leaning in slightly, casual. Playful. Something Harry used to see in Ron before he was consumed with Hermione and all that her company entailed these days.  
  
'Isn't the weather kind of shit?'  
  
'What? You can bring down Voldemort but you're afraid of a little rain?'  
  
It was a thing, now, teasing Harry about the things he wouldn't do. _'So, what, Harry? You'll die for us but you won't make us a cup of tea? You'll head a rebellion but you won't play for the 8th Year Quidditch team? You'll steal my wand out of my hand in my own home but you won't let me touch yours?'_  
  
Life had become a bizarre series of off-hand references to his former 'heroics' and a belligerent universal decision amongst everyone he knew to never let him forget he was, to them, just Harry. It was frustrating and appreciated, both. And the shit with Malfoy was just confusing.  
  
'I'm not afraid of rain, just of what your mother will say when we come traipsing in here, soaking and dragging wet brooms across the carpet.'  
  
'Well, then we'll dry off in the shed first, come on.' And then he’s pushing away from the door and disappearing upstairs, no doubt to ask the others if they’re keen. Harry looks down at his jeans and t-shirt with, incidentally, one of Charlie's old hoodies pulled on over the top. He'll need his jacket, which is upstairs, as are Ron and Hermione. Ugh.  
  
No. That was unfair. He's happy for them, mostly, but also kind of wary of walking in on anyone, especially lately, after… well. Things at school. He considers the time of day and the full house and decides it wouldn't be enough to guarantee a safe trip upstairs, knowing Ron's constant thirst and unwavering determination. Not that he’s judging — he spends most of his time these days with the beginnings of a semi, like all of his hormones have got some sort of memo that the world-saving is over and it’s time to bang. Except, of course, there is no one to bang. Not really.  
  
Ginny and him had tried, but it came on the heels of him having left her alone for months with no explanation, no letters, nothing, and grief didn't do much for a romance as faltering as theirs once he got back. They'd stuck it out for a month over summer, just being near, holding on to each other, sleeping entwined and leaning heavily into the hope that it'd work. It hadn't, and by then it didn't even feel like a loss, it was almost a relief that they could keep being what they were _now,_ without trying to recapture _then._  
  
Harry raises his wand and points it up the stairs. 'Accio jacket,' he calls and hopes it isn't stuck behind a closed door with people who too immersed in each other to let it out. Or worse, that it isn't stuck under them. If they were on his bed, he'd— Well. He'd be displeased. His jacket whizzes into his hand a moment later and a cursory exam deems it clean and dry. Safe.  
  
Charlie follows a minute later, alone, pushing his tightly-muscled arms into his own jacket. 'George and Perce are being boring, and Ron didn't answer when I called from the landing, so we're likely on our own.' He strides past Harry where he’s stood at the bottom of the stairs, grabbing two scarves off the hook by the front door and throwing one at him. 'Unless our baby sister is up for a fly?' he calls toward the kitchen.  
  
'Mum said it's going to rain,' she calls back, and mutters something Harry only catches the end of as they step into the heart of the house. It sounds suspiciously like 'idiots'.  
  
'Come on Gin, rain doesn't hurt,' Charlie coaxes.  
  
'No, I'm busy, go away,' she dismisses them with a wave of her hand before turning the page of her book and completely ignoring the fact they’re still there.  
  
Harry still feels a touch awkward around her, sometimes. Not usually, but then there are moments where she looks unreasonably pretty and he experiences a flash of regret that he can't have her. It never survives his conscious mind but the base instinct, the hormonal want, still leaves prickles in his blood every time.  
  
The garden is cooler than the house, a damp blanket against their skin, the grass licking at their shins. Harry follows Charlie blindly across the lawn, staring up at the sky and thinking about Ginny's words, _'Mum says it's going to rain'_. It certainly looks that way. Heavy cloud, grey and close, roiling on the horizon, making shapes against the white sky. Probably not the best day for flying, but what else would he do? Go back to staring into the fire and thinking of almost nothing? Dwelling on the peculiar behaviour of his roommate and the itch it put under his skin? The fresh air was helping already, a quick circuit around the property wouldn't do him any harm. Maybe they'd get wet, drenched, with numb fingers and cold toes, but at least he'd be doing something. Perhaps the many tiny pressures of school were building up and making him reckless, maybe he just wasn't afraid of anything tangible anymore. Who could tell. It's not as if there was a handbook for it. _After The Dark Lord: A Hero's Handbook For Coping With Everyday Life._ Wishful thinking. Maybe he'd write it himself, once he figured out what to do with his life.  
  
'Did you bring a broom with you?' Charlie's voice cut through his thoughts.  
  
'Oh. No,' Harry answers. 'I don't have one anymore.'  
  
'Youngest Seeker in a century and he doesn't have a broom?'  
  
'It was kinda fucked up after…' Harry shrugs awkwardly. 'You know.'  
  
'You never got a new one?' Charlie looks sad all of a sudden. Like the thought of a Gryffindor Seeker confined to the ground was a wretched and terrible thing.  
  
'Sirius gave it to me. How could—' he stops. Was it silly, what he was admitting? That he never wanted to buy a broom again because he'd never love another one as much as he'd loved the Firebolt and it seemed pointless to own a broom he didn't care about?  
  
'Of course. But I doubt he'd want you stuck on the ground, Harry. He clearly wanted you in the air before. Why would that have changed?'  
  
'I dunno. I guess it wouldn't have.'  
  
'Tell you what,' Charlie says as he pulls the door to the shed open and ushers Harry in ahead of him. 'Let's go into town tomorrow and have a look at what they've got, and maybe there'll be a broom there you think he'd have approved of. Maybe they make one with a leather handle and no regard for the rules.'  
  
Harry smirks and it's nice, really, to be able to talk about Sirius and it not be a sad, pitiful thing. To be able to joke about it, almost.  
  
'That sounds alright. Probably better than sitting around doing nothing again.'  
  
'This isn't nothing, thank you,' Charlie says in mock offense. 'This is much-needed exercise and maintenance of our power and agility as Gryffindor seekers. We owe it to the legacy to stay sharp.'  
  
'Sure. I'm just glad to have something to distract me.'  
  
'Things with Gin still awkward?'  
  
'No, she's been good. Great, really. I mean, it's still unusual sometimes, and I forget what we are, but, no. We're fine. Good.'  
  
'Something else you want to talk about?'  
  
'No,' Harry says with a sigh. 'I don't even want to think about it.'  
  
'Healthy, Harry.'  
  
'Shut up, let's fly,' he says and throws a leg over the broom.  
  
Charlie mounts his and takes off while still standing in the footrests, easing into his seat as he picks up speed. It leaves Harry with an uninterrupted view of his arse, grey trackie bottoms conforming to the curve of him and reminding Harry of what he'll be dealing with once he gets back to school.  
  
They make it to the line of trees with only a few metres between them thanks to Harry's best efforts to catch up — using his lighter frame to its advantage. They pass through the windbreak and Charlie pulls his broom into a tight loop, circling up just above the treeline to wait.  
  
'Ready, Harry?' he asks, pulling a Snitch out of his jacket pocket.  
  
Harry always forgets Charlie can be dextrous. He's so big, exudes such power, it's hard to consolidate his easy strength with the delicacy of the Snitch, its fragile wings fluttering between his fingers in the dull light of the overcast sky. It's probably not fair to judge him on his appearance, though it's easy to assume with the aesthetic he embraces. Charlie doesn't look gentle or smart, no one that effortlessly handsome ever does, but the stereotypical muscle to brain power ratio doesn't tell a true story. Harry's pretty sure Charlie'd be able to give Newt Scamander a run for his money, provided anyone could ever get him to sit still long enough to write a book. Molly still despairs at the lack of letters home and he's been living in Romania for almost nine years.  
  
This is him in his element — poised for action, itching to go. His enthusiasm for adventure is infectious and Harry feels like he's alive for the first time in a while, the wind and the sight of Charlie and the Snitch enough to blow the cobwebs away.  
  
'Ready,' he calls, cracking a smile, waiting for the release, the countdown. He's lighter, yes, and faster for it, but Charlie knows these trees better and won't take it easy on him. It's an even match and it's kind of nice in a way, that no one else wanted to play. There's purity in a Seekers' game. A single task, no rules, just first to get there. Harry's life is horribly short of simple tasks these days.  
  
Charlie tosses the ball in the air and they watch it find its wings and hover for a second before zipping away through the rows of apple trees. He counts them down from ten and they're both off after it, the cold air slicing at them, sharp against every tiny uncovered sliver of skin, finding where one layer doesn't quite meet the other and burrowing icy fingers under their clothes. Harry’s core temperature fights with itself — the weather dragging it down and the exertion of pelting around the orchard slowly pulling it back up ‘til he’s warm on the inside with a cold shell close around him. He can’t tell where his feet or his fingers sit in relation to that, he can’t feel them much, so they’re either comfortable or frozen. Probably the latter.  
  
There's no flash of gold ahead to temper the outer chill, and Harry almost starts to wonder if this wasn't a bad idea when he sees Charlie pull up and spiral back the way he came, and then it's there, not too far off, glinting on the outstretched wing of a young apple tree, then gone, off into the next row. Harry hunkers down and guides his broom over the top of the spindly branches, Charlie diving from the opposite side, and they pass with only inches between them, the Snitch suddenly nowhere in sight.  
  
It goes like that for a time, near misses and winter's unwanted kisses, and Harry is stiff and tired and still not ready to go inside. Inside means he has to think, and out here he doesn't have room for such things, not when there are branches and Charlie and the ground all trying to bruise him in his hunt.  
  
The first drop of rain hits him square on the back of the neck, sliding wet and cold under his scarf and making him shiver. The second isn't far behind, landing on the tip of his ear, then there's another on his glasses and then it's heaving, and Charlie is yelling something and whipping past him, Snitch forgotten. Harry follows, speeding over ground they'd covered but not toward the house. He wonders if he's got himself turned around until he sees the straight lines of a structure amongst the trees, a contrast amid a sea of twisting, gnarled, living wood. The treehouse. He knew it existed from stories, and he'd sped past it ten minutes ago, but it looked derelict, forgotten, almost back to being one with the trees.  
  
Charlie dips down and under it, his navy blue coat almost lost in the darkness that came with the rain. Harry slows and follows, and slides in under the treehouse sideways, bumping into Charlie's steady bulk. Even like this, astride a broom with so little to truly anchor his weight, Harry just bounces off him.  
  
'That escalated quickly,' Charlie says, his voice close and gleeful, the chaos of weather a welcome second to that of a paddock full of dragons.  
  
'I'm freezing,' Harry says in agreement. 'How long do you think this will last?'  
  
'No idea, let's get inside shall we?'  
  
'Is it a real treehouse?'  
  
Charlie laughs, his breath warm on Harry's cheek. 'Of course it is, shove over a bit,' he says and reaches above them to a sliding bolt Harry hadn't noticed was there. It squeaks and thunks and the trapdoor over their heads lurches down and Charlie catches it with his forearm, lowering it slowly ‘til it hangs heavy on its hinges, swaying in the wind. He guides his broom with one hand ‘til he's square underneath it and floats up, pulling himself through the hole, swallowed by the dark. Harry starts when his arm reaches back out through the hole, and then the rest of Charlie's top half follows, pulling a thin rope over his shoulder to tether his broom. The wind won’t hesitate to steal it, and Harry doesn’t fancy walking back. 'You alright?' Charlie asks. 'Come this way a bit and I can pull you up.'  
  
Harry glides sideways, the wind doing its best to put him off course. Charlie grabs him by the scruff to steady him, and Harry scrambles, inelegantly, up onto the floor of the treehouse. Charlie tethers his broom as well, with another thin rope, as Harry collects himself, and he's pretty sure he just gave the poor guy an eyeful of his denim-clad arse as he demonstrated his lack of upper body strength.  
  
The trapdoor creaks shut behind him and a matching bolt slides home, leaving them in darkness and a muffled sort of quiet.  
  
'Pretty fierce out there,' Charlie says, and Harry hears him moving around in the space, heavy boots on wooden floors, the sound of him knocking something and swearing softly, before a square of pale light grows out of the wall.  
  
A small window, its curtain drawn back, reveals a bigger space than Harry expected, and really, it's about time he stopped being surprised by magic.  
  
'Wow,' he breathes, taking it all in. There's a rug off to their right that's bigger than Ron's whole room, worn and faded reds and oranges. The fringe has been stomped away to broken wisps of twine over the years, and there are greyish patches where the feet of all the Weasleys have made their mark.  
  
There's a low table, a set of shelves holding all manner of boardgames, a cabinet painted a virulent orange and covered in various stickers. Against the far wall, under another, larger, curtained window, is a huge, velvety, moss-coloured couch. On an upturned crate beside it, a multicoloured pile of blankets. They look very, very inviting. Harry shivers.  
  
'Let's get warm, shall we?' Charlie says, and opens up a small chest at his feet. Harry hadn't noticed it before, and it seems to be filled with old woollen jumpers and lumpy socks. 'These should fit okay,' Charlie says and walks over with a bundle of colour in his arms, dropping half of it beside where Harry is sitting on the floor.  
  
He strips off his own jacket and scarf, hanging them on a hook, and Harry is treated to a pale strip of bare skin as he pulls the extra jumper on over his head. It'd be better if it didn't feel like a treat. He doesn't need thoughts of Charlie tangling with all of the other crap in his head, life is confusing enough. But the truth is there, in the pound of his heart and the tickle of guilt in his throat and the spark of interest growing in his lap. They're trapped in a cabin in the woods, almost. All they'd need is an open fire and a bear skin rug and Harry would be living out every middle-aged woman's deepest fantasy.  
  
He looks up at Charlie, hair rumpled and clashing horribly with the jumper. It's a soft red, almost pink, and has a pair of crossed brooms knitted into the front in a creamy colour that might've been yellow at some stage. Even in that he looks good — enviably solid and broad-shouldered — and Harry can't decide if he wants to be like him or if the feeling is something else less familial. Whatever it is, is causing enough of a problem that Harry has to look away as Charlie bends in half to unlace his boots. The pale light is bouncing off the light grey marle of his arse and those fucking trousers might just be the end of him.  
  
He distracts himself with his own shoes, toeing them onto the floor and peeling off his wet socks. He wiggles his toes, trying to return some circulation and thus, warmth, to them. It'll be impossible while the rest of him is wet, so he pushes himself up off the floor and sets to casting a drying charm over his damp jeans. He uncoils his own scarf and slips off the jacket, wandlessly sending them to float over and hang next to Charlie's on the wall. His sweatshirt is damp at the cuffs, and he shoots a blast of warm air over each wrist in turn ‘til they're comfortable again before pulling on his own extra jumper. Looking down, he notices it has a 'C' on it, and he realises he's wearing one of Charlie's and that he's given it to him to wear on purpose. Part of him wonders if there's something in that. The same part that's afraid to look too hard at him in case he liked it. Everything happening at school is poisoning his mind. It's madness.  
  
He tugs the dry socks on, balance wavering slightly as the growing cold makes him less agile. He watches Charlie out of the corner of his eye, crossing to the couch and shaking out the blankets one by one. It's a moment before he fully understands what Charlie is doing. Making a nest. He lines each end of the couch with one blanket then drapes more over the middle. One thick layer of wool and patchwork for them both to get under, presumably.  
  
He and Charlie get on well, and he's not weirded out by being near other blokes, obviously, but it looks a lot like they're about to snuggle and that rings a bell of mild alarm in his head. He's not worried he won't like it, quite the opposite. At least the pile of blankets is thick enough to hide anything that might pop up if the tangle of legs is too much to deal with. He hopes this magic treehouse has some magic alcohol to ease his nerves.  
  
'Are you hungry?' Charlie asks. 'We used to keep snacks in the cabinet, there.' He nods toward the little orange cupboard, and Harry makes himself useful, padding across the rug to crouch in front of it.  
  
He conjures a ball of light and pushes it into the space, prepared for mouldy biscuits and tins of expired sardines. It's not that bad. The biscuits aren't even open and are (just) within the use by date. The half-bottle of single malt is in fine shape. No glasses though. Or straws. Or anything, actually, and that means swigging 46% Auchentoshan Blood Oak out of the same bottle as Charlie, putting his lips against the same rim. Which is obviously fine. It's brotherly.  
  
He takes the biscuits and the whiskey over to the couch where Charlie has crawled under the blankets at one end and is flicking through a pack of cards that don't quite look normal.  
  
'Cool, there's something worth drinking as well,' he grins and part of Harry gets more nervous, because it's one thing to have a couple mouthfuls to calm yourself down, but another if someone like Charlie is on board for properly drinking while stuck in a cabin in the woods, and someone like Harry is incapable of not acting like a tit when he's tipsy. 'Get in, it's freezing.'  
  
Harry shelves his trepidation and tucks the biscuits under his arm, leaving him a free hand to lift the blankets and climb under. He can feel Charlie's feet as he shuffles into position, leaning back against the arm of the couch, mirroring his posture. He tries not to touch him, but he can feel the heat in his toes and it's inescapable. He screws the top off the bottle and downs a few glugs to get himself started. It burns his throat and he coughs. Charlie laughs as he holds out a hand for his turn. He doesn't wipe the rim or anything, just lays his lips right where Harry's had been seconds before.  
  
Harry opens the biscuits and feels the slide of a foot against his ankle. 'We should tell someone where we are,' he says. 'Patronus or something.'  
  
'That's on you, then,' Charlie says with a quirk of his eyebrow. 'Never mastered that charm.'  
  
'Oh,' Harry says, and he's surprised at that.  
  
'You don't realise how powerful you are, do you?' Charlie asks with a smirk. 'I saw you,' he says when Harry gapes in confusion. 'Your jacket. Wandless, wordless levitation? And conjuring of light? Not to mention your ability to produce a corporeal Patronus when you were fourteen.'  
  
"Oh. Er. No. I don't—'  
  
'Shut up, would you, and put my mother out of her misery.'  
  
'Sorry,' Harry says, and slides his wand out of his sleeve. Charlie is watching him and his feelings fight over whether it's gratifying or nerve-wracking, when it's probably both and he should just accept it.  
  
He speaks the incantation, whirls his wand and the stag leaps neatly out of the end to land soundlessly on the rug. It turns and waits.  
  
'Hi Molly, we're okay,' he starts, and wonders if he wants to say where they are. He'd hate to be rescued and have to go back to sitting in the lounge and staring aimlessly into the fireplace. 'We found shelter, so we're just going to ride it out here ‘til the weather calms down. You were right about the rain. Sorry,' he adds.  
  
At the other end of the couch, Charlie chuckles softly as the stag bows and leaps through the wall. 'Gin's gonna be harping on that she told us so when we get back.'  
  
'Let her,' Harry says, 'no sense in spoiling her fun, there's precious little of it around these days.'  
  
'I did think you'd been a little quiet lately,' Charlie says and Harry feels the immediate vulnerability of being oblivious to someone keeping an eye on him. What does Charlie think he's seen? Was any of it actually indicative of what was going on at school — his internal struggle of figuring out his own sexuality with almost nothing to go on? Not to mention someone trying very hard to make up his mind for him?  
  
'Aren't we all?' he says, though, and the conversation drifts to their family, friends, the wizarding world as a whole, and what rebuilding it is going to mean, what a new, more tolerant, society will look like. How the perpetrators of the unrest are being punished. How many of them are even left alive.  
  
They meander through an hour of conversation and a token effort at playing cards on their laps, the whiskey warming their throats and the nest of blankets warming their bodies. Harry is calm and relaxed and has almost forgotten the peril of having observant friends and so little filter when it comes to facial expressions.  
  
'So how's school?' Charlie takes another mouthful of whisky. 'I hear you're in twin rooms now. Sounds dangerous.'  
  
'It does?' Harry asks, attempting to not look like he knows exactly what he means.  
  
'Well, if I think back to school, there were seven boys in my dorm; one of them also bi, three of them fit as fuck but straight as nails, another who snored so loud we used to make him sleep in the corridor during exams, and another who had a lactose intolerance which made him really gassy. So, depending on how we were paired off, you've either got two boys fucking constantly in the privacy of their own room, constant pining and furious masturbation, murder or, well, more murder. It's wildly risky. You and Ron would probably be okay, but he says he's in with someone called Justin?'  
  
'Yeah, they, er, mixed the houses up since all the eighths are in a separate tower and they only had a certain amount of rooms. We're all sharing with one other except Millicent Bulstrode, who somehow got to be the one person who doesn't have to.'  
  
'Lucky duck.'  
  
'Yeah. Rumour has it she told McGonagall she was pansexual and it wouldn't be appropriate for her to share with anyone if the intent of the gender separation was to be taken into account.'  
  
'Smart duck.'  
  
'I wish I'd thought of it. They've roomed me with, er, Draco Malfoy.'  
  
'The baby Death Eater? Are you serious?'  
  
'Apparently I was the only one McGonagall trusted not to fuck with him. Or kill him — even in with me, he still gets shitty notes slid under the door.'  
  
'Does he deserve it?' Charlie asks and Harry's heart drops. It's a feeling that he's come to hate because it used to mean someone’s actively trying to kill him, but this is almost as bad because it means he cares what Charlie thinks of Draco. 'I don't know him, but his family were pretty thoroughly involved with the wrong side. People are upset that he's free, I'd imagine, not to mention sharing classes with them like nothing happened.'  
  
'Family isn't always a reliable indicator of shared beliefs,' Harry says. 'Look at mine. Sirius's. Look at Percy, having faith in the wrong people and thinking he was doing the right thing all that time.' Harry looks up to see if Charlie's going to protest at the mention of his brother, but he just looks thoughtful. 'Besides,' he says. 'We saw Malfoy that Easter, at the manor, he was scared. He helped us get out. He lied for us. We couldn't have escaped without him, Voldemort would've killed me right there. All of us, probably.' Harry sighs and takes another drink. 'He's not evil, he was just stupid and in a shitty situation.'  
  
'Looks like McGonagall made the right choice, then.'  
  
'I guess. Though Ron also wouldn't have killed him,' Harry smirked. 'Though Wheezes would've done well out of it, I bet.'  
  
'You sound like you don't mind him too much.'  
  
Did he not mind Malfoy? Of course he did — the prick was difficult to live with. He was messy and entitled and inappropriate and never left Harry alone. But that didn't mean he hated him, still. Despite the near constant low-level irritation. And he'd gotten better lately. 'He's changed a lot since we were kids. He used to be so shitty and stuck-up and just... Constantly needling people. Mainly me, of course. Dick.'  
  
'Pulling your pigtails?'  
  
Harry makes a noncommittal sound, and Charlie reads it far too perceptively. Damn him. His eyebrows go up and he smirks.  
  
'It wasn't like that,' Harry says, and he hasn't figured out if it's true or not, doesn't really even know if he wants to.  
  
'Sure.' Charlie sounds unconvinced. 'What's it like now?'  
  
'Do we have to talk about this?' Harry asks and realises his mistake too late — his own reluctance will be evidence enough that something is going on, and if Charlie's anywhere near as curious as the twins are — were — then Harry's about to be badgered. Skillfully.  
  
'Do you need to talk about it?' Charlie says, sounding oh so selfless. Disarming. Confident. Like maybe he's quite positive he can help, and really, if any one of the Weasleys is going to have insight into male relationships…  
  
Fuck. Probably worth a shot. If Harry asks no one for advice, he'll get no advice. Nothing he's thought of himself has helped. It's not his area of expertise. Which is the underlying problem, more so than anything else.  
  
'I just— It's weird and complicated and I don't really know what's going on.'  
  
'Which sounds like the perfect diversion while we're stuck here. And you never know, I might know a thing or two about men.' He smiles. 'Besides, do you really think Ron's going to be any help if you try and talk to him? You saw how clueless he was with Hermione.'  
  
'I saw more than anyone else saw, thank you very much. It was... like the Kobayashi Maru. An unwinnable situation. I could've either had them angsting about each other or have them actually get their shit together and end up snogging in front of me. Neither were favourable. As you can see now, when they won't even leave Ron's room. I need new friends.'  
  
'Sounds like you have one with Malfoy.'  
  
'We aren't exactly friends.'  
  
'What are you?'  
  
'We're... two guys who live in the same room — which is annoying in itself because we're both bloody hermits. And there's almost no privacy, and if you try and close your bed curtains to have some it just looks like you're having a wank, which of course, he decides to comment on.'  
  
'He comments on your wanking habits?' Charlie snorts. 'That seems somewhat past pulling just your pigtails.'  
  
'He has an opinion on everything. My hair, and when I shower, and what books I read, and how much sleep I get — or don't get. He's very... invasive.'  
  
'Sounds like he's interested in you.'  
  
'He's interested in something.'  
  
'Oh.' Charlie looks pleasantly scandalised. 'Is he actually flirting with you, then?'  
  
'Yeah. It's pretty fucking awkward.'  
  
'Are you... Interested in him?'  
  
'I— I don't know. I'm not… averse to the idea. But I've only ever liked girls before, so…' Harry hides behind one hand for a second, then pushes it back through his hair. 'I mean, I'm pretty sure I'm not straight. I'm unsure what to do about it is all, and he's being very— He just. He seems sure. Like he knows what he wants. Which is unsettling because I have no idea. I haven't really thought about anything so mundane before, as, like, having options. Normally I tend to focus on not dying and trying to pass school and occasionally taking a break to mourn everyone and contemplate Quidditch.' Harry takes another swig and realises it's his third in a short space of time and screws the lid back on before he can start to want another. 'Everything with Cho and Gin kind of just happened. It was easy.'  
  
'Why don't you do some research, then? Get off with some random guy and see if you like it?' Charlie offers, and holds out his hand for the bottle. 'That'd be a start in figuring out what you want.'  
  
Harry raises his brow. 'I'm kinda recognisable,' he says. 'It would be all over the Prophet by morning.'  
  
Charlie shrugs. 'Go Muggle?'  
  
'Yes. I'll just slip off into town by myself and ask the first guy I see if they fancy getting off with me,' Harry says and has to look at his knees. He's never much liked talking about himself, but discussing himself sexually is a new level of awkward. 'I'd get arrested as some sort of sex-pest.'  
  
Charlie, at least, finds it amusing. 'Maybe wait 'til the second time you see them, or perhaps ask them on a date first?'  
  
'I don't have time for that, I don't think.' Harry picked at a tiny bobble on the woollen blanket. 'He's getting more... suggestive and it's getting harder to pretend I don't know what he's doing.'  
  
'What is he doing?' Charlie looks in his element when Harry flicks a glance up at him; calm, happy, comfortable.  
  
Harry sighs. 'Walking around shirtless all the time. Sitting around in his underwear. Very blatantly sleeping completely naked, with his curtains open. He made me let him brush my hair the other day.'  
  
'Naked?'  
  
'No, he had his pants on for that, thank god. Not that.. Well. You know,' Harry cringes. 'They didn't leave a lot to the imagination.'  
  
'Harry, you do seem kind of interested in him. You'd be complaining he was a poser or a weirdo or a "sex-pest" if you didn't appreciate his state of undress a little. Or a lot.'  
  
'Yeah, but. What if I just want to look? What if that's where it stops? What if I'm wrong about liking guys? Or what if I'm right but my inexperience puts him off and then it's just half a year of horrifying awkwardness after some stupid grope in the dark? What if there are rules about this sort of stuff that I don't know because I've only ever been with girls?'  
  
'So, ideally you want a brief affair before you try with him, so he won't be put off by your woeful inadequacies as a lover of men?'  
  
'I said inexperience, not inadequacy, you git.'  
  
'Well, I don't think that's for you to decide.'  
  
'Charlie,’ Harry tries to look stern while a rebellious tingle of curiosity spreads across his chest and into his folded limbs. ‘We’re in an abandoned treehouse, in a storm, we’ve demolished half a bottle of whiskey and I’ve just spewed out all my feelings. It sounds a lot like you're offering to decide for me.'  
  
'Well,' is all he says before laying a large hand on Harry's calf and drawing his wand with the other to summon the biscuits. Harry starts a little. His jumpiness has nothing to do with the warmth of another person's fingers wrapped around his leg. Not at all. 'You know I normally charge for lessons.'  
  
'Oh, that's no problem,' Harry says, his nerves battling with the part of him that was suddenly screaming YES, PLEASE. Charlie didn't normally tease him like this and he didn't know whether he was even kidding, considering the current situation and the fact he knew Charlie and his most recent boyfriend must've broken up, since he'd arrived at the Burrow alone, despite planning otherwise. 'I can pay.'  
  
'You would certainly pay,' Charlie says as the packet smacks into his waiting hand. 'You wouldn't be able to walk for days.'  
  
'Oh really?' Harry tries to sound casually indifferent, but he's seventy percent sure his voice just cracked for the first time in years and his heart is pounding so hard he can hear it.  
  
'Oh, yeah. You know what they say about about Dragonbalm,' Charlie says, sliding the plastic sleeve out of the box. 'Twice a day, and it'll make you as thick as a packet of Hobnobs.'  
  
'I don't think that's something I'd want to see,' Harry says but his eyes are drawn to the girth of the packet; even in Charlie's huge hand it looks… too big.  
  
'Maybe have another biccie and think it over,' he says, holding them out to Harry.  
  
'I don't expect any more thinking is going to help,' Harry says but he takes a biscuit anyway.  
  
'I did suggest going into town and having a go at _doing.'_  
  
'You also suggested staying here and doing the same.' Harry blames the whisky but he knows he would’ve wanted to say it sober. Just wouldn’t have had the balls to do so. He raises his brow.  
  
'Sorry, I shouldn't have, that was weird.' Charlie bites into his own biscuit and half of it is gone. 'Ignore me. I'm half drunk and stuck here without Ash, who decided it was too soon to meet family and bailed on me like a dick.'  
  
'Ash, your boyfriend?' Harry asks, wondering how that fits in with Charlie offering himself up for experimentation. It’s a little weird, because if Harry’s wrong about them having split up, it suggests either that Charlie is okay with some mild cheating, or that he deemed Harry insignificant enough that he wouldn’t even consider it cheating. Ouch.  
  
'He was.’ Charlie rolls his eyes. ‘If six months isn't enough for him, who says we'll ever get there? I don't have time for that. I want my own family. Kids. Not just some convenient arsehole to sleep with.'  
  
'Fair,’ Harry says, relieved. ‘Though I'd settle for simply knowing what I want, so at least you've got that.'  
  
'Harry,' Charlie says, and looks across at him, his expression serious. 'If I actually can be of help, I will. I remember being where you are and it's… draining. Took me years to sort out. And we've all been through enough shit this last while, we don't need to be making it worse. Not if something I can do makes it better for you.'  
  
'I don't— We can't just— I don't know.' Harry drops his face into his hands again, scrubs his cheeks, rough with stubble. 'Won't, like, everyone be really weird about it?'  
  
'I solemnly swear I would never tell anyone back at the house any of this. Even if you decide I'm a giant perv and you never want to be stuck in a treehouse with me ever again. Actually, maybe especially then, that would be embarrassing, oh my god, why did I suggest this?'  
  
'I don’t think you're a perv,' Harry sighed. 'You're just trying to be helpful. I think I'm a perv for considering it, maybe.'  
  
'How is it different from you and Gin? Everyone was fine with that.'  
  
'The fact that me and Gin were me and Gin is surely half the problem?'  
  
'What's the other half?'  
  
'I don't know, what if your mum thinks I'm just making my way through the family, taking advantage?'  
  
'Harry, it’s not like there's anyone left after me, all my brothers are woefully straight, even Percy if this Audrey girl he's talking about is real. And look at you. Look at_ me.’_  
  
Charlie gestures between them, at Harry’s light, lean frame and his own heaving bulk. ‘You're not in any position to be taking advantage. If anything, I'd be in trouble for trying to get a leg over someone so much younger. In fact, you know what, you're right, this is weird, you're still in school. Let's just, not, and maybe pretend I didn't suggest it?'  
  
'Tease,' Harry says and takes another biscuit. He can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed but he’s determined to not let it get any more awkward.  
  
'Strumpet,' Charlie returns, and picks up the bottle again. 'Leading respectable men astray.'  
  
'I've never led any men astray, hence my problem. I wouldn't know how, or what to do when I got there.'  
  
Charlie downs a glug, then another, the movement of his throat hypnotic. 'Maybe I can owl order you a book,' he says with a sigh, twisting the cap back on. Harry watches his fingers on the neck of the bottle.  
  
'Maybe I just won't go back to school,' he says, adjusting his trousers.  
  
'Now, Harry,’ Charlie says as he places the bottle on the floor, ‘we can't have this affecting your education.'  
  
'Already is. Do you know how hard it is to study when your roommate insists on doing stretches in skin tight leggings?' Harry lets his head drop back onto the arm of the couch. The ceiling is the same wooden planking as the walls and floor so it's kind of like being in a large box. 'Yoga's meant to be good for you but I feel like I'm dying every time he does it.'  
  
He hears Charlie laugh from the opposite end of the couch, and his ankle shifts against Harry's leg. It's distracting, and if the conversation wasn't teetering where it was, on the cusp of resolution, that movement in itself might've been enough to cause a stirring in Harry's lap. As it was, he’s thankful for the thick denim of his jeans keeping his enthusiasm contained.  
  
'Okay then,' he starts and Harry wonders what's coming. 'What do you want to know about? I can at least tell you things.'  
  
Okay. That wasn't so bad. Except—  
  
'I don’t know, that's half the problem,' Harry says, and the whisky continues for him. 'What do you do? Where does stuff go? Who does what?'  
  
'By stuff, I assume you're talking about your dick?'  
  
'Yeah. Or his.'  
  
'Well then, wherever you both consent to it going.'  
  
'How do you know what they want?' Harry lifts his head.  
  
'You talk about it. Like we are now.' Charlie gives him a crooked grin. Like he’s both mocking Harry and at the same time, knows deep in his soul how horribly uncomfortable talking about dicks was when one of them was your own. 'Where would you like to put yours, Harry?'  
  
'You're making this more awkward than if I just went back to school and was horrible at sex. At least then I wouldn’t have to say anything.'  
  
'Fine. I'll start.' Charlie lets out a long huff of breath, preparing himself. 'I like blowjobs. I like them a lot. I like having someone snuggled between my thighs, sucking my dick and playing with my balls.' He nodded to himself before looking up. 'Something you're into?'  
  
'Well, yeah, obviously.' Harry was pretty sure everyone liked having someone go down on them. It wasn't weird to like it. It was a little weird talking about it. It'd be very weird talking to Malfoy about it.  
  
'Start there, then,' Charlie says. 'See how that goes.'  
  
He made it sound easy, and perhaps one day it would be, but… 'How do I get from staring at him bent over in tights to sucking him off? I feel like bringing him flowers and taking him for a romantic coffee date isn't going to help.'  
  
'Well, he’s hardly going to make it difficult if he likes you. And I assume you know how to kiss someone already.'  
  
'I suppose, if guys are no different from girls.' Harry lets the comfort and the whisky ease the words out. 'Are they different?' He looks right at Charlie, at his messy hair and his strong jaw and his lopsided smile and wonders what’s going to happen if he keeps letting his thoughts fall out of his mouth.  
  
'Are you trying to trick me into kissing you?'  
  
'No. I'm not.'_Not really._ Harry scrubs at his face again, he feels hot and tickly and weird. 'I'm fine.'  
  
'Of course, silly me.' Charlie stretches his legs out ‘til his socked feet are getting a bit close, too close, touching him, then sliding under Harry’s thighs. It’s erotic and teasing and cruel. 'You're not having a sexual crisis.' He smirks.  
  
'Charlieeee,' Harry groans. 'You wanker. You're not helping.'  
  
'Yeah, well, we decided that would be weird.' He wiggles his toes.  
  
'Yes, but—' Harry clamps a hand down on each of Charlie’s ankles, either side of his own growing erection. ‘You’re not acting like you think that.’  
  
‘We might be overthinking it.’  
  
'So— What? Would you not mind if I kissed you?'  
  
'Probably only if you're terrible at it.'  
  
'One girl cried.'  
  
Charlie lets out a laugh. 'Not a shining recommendation.'  
  
'I hope I've gotten better since then.'  
  
'Well, come on then,' Charlie tugs on Harry’s calves. ‘Do your worst.’  
  
A tiny thrill chases the immediate dread that drops into Harry’s gut. A thousand questions rip through his head as he takes in the significance of this moment. Permission to try something with another guy. No strings, no careful lies, just… a chance to have a go. But behind that, looming, is Charlie’s own experience, far greater. He’s older, and bigger and stronger and Harry is either in over his head or the luckiest idiot in England. He just has to get up without drawing attention to the situation in his pants.  
  
'Do I have to come over there?'  
  
'The pesky decade between us makes it preferable, yes.' Charlie smiled. 'If we're trying to avoid weird, then minimising my feelings of predation would be nice. And also, if you do it, it's not my fault and if my sister ever finds out she'll kill you first.'  
  
'Seven and a half years, but okay,' Harry says and considers the logistics. He’s going to have to straddle Charlie’s legs to get anywhere near him. 'And I won't tell Ginny. Ever. In fact,’ he says, shifting his weight forward and tucking his feet under himself so he was kneeling on top of the blankets. ‘Let’s just pretend this isn't happening? If _we _don't know about it we couldn't possibly tell anyone else.'  
  
He crawls forward on his hands and knees, hoping the angle will make the tenting in his trousers less obvious.  
  
'That's really weird logic,’ Charlies says, and his voice is softer, less sure than before. ‘But you saved the world so I'm going to let it slide.'  
  
'Good,’ Harry says as he hovers over Charlie's thighs and tries to decide whether to stay on all fours or crawl into his lap. ‘Thanks.'  
  
The decision is made for him as strong hands grip either side of his hips and pull him close. His knees slide either side of Charlie’s waist and he’s thankful for the blankets bunched around him for keeping his obvious enthusiasm unnoticeable. He wonders what to do with his hands.  
  
'No problem,' Charlie says, hands sliding up Harry’s back. He looks calm, almost smug.  
  
Harry is not calm. Charlie is somehow even better looking up close, and while Harry’s hormones beg for him to let go, he’s still scared he’ll do something silly and embarrass himself. But then, that’s what this is, isn’t it? A safe place to do the stupid things and get put right so he doesn’t do them again, when it matters. So the best idea would be to do exactly what he wants and find out if his instincts are off. If what he wants is wrong somehow. A great plan, except that he’s pretty sure what he wants is to get up and run out into the storm.  
  
Fortunately, Charlie is far from patient and only waits a second before lifting his knees. Harry tips toward him, hands flying out to catch himself and finding an obscenely muscled chest, warm and firm under his fingers. He has almost no time to appreciate it before Charlie is tightening his arms around his back and crowding in and Harry’s eyelids flutter shut and then he’s being kissed.  
  
It’s nothing like kissing a girl.  
  
Charlie is everywhere. His arms are a vice around Harry's ribs, his hands firm and sure and his tongue swift and slick and strong. His mouth feels huge and hot and tastes of whisky and biscuits. His lips are soft and encompassing and the prick of stubble against Harry's own is bizarre and glorious all at once. Charlie's good at this. He's_ really _good. He's taking complete control and there's not a second of hesitation in anything he does, not once in the long minutes they stay just like that, drinking each other in.  
  
Harry's struggling to keep it together when one broad hand shifts down to his lower back and holds him there as he feels Charlie flex his hips under him and groan softly into his mouth.  
_  
Fuck. _  
  
Well. At least he isn't alone in being hard and horny as hell. Though where that was going to lead was a bit of an issue, they hadn't planned for anything to actually_ happen._  
  
Charlie grinds up into him again, gasping against his lips, and Harry feels his cock throb with envy. If the blankets weren't trapped between them, he might be able to feel everything a bit better. Might finally know what it was like to have someone's hard dick press against him. He has a feeling he's going to like it, but it pays to be sure about these things.  
  
'Charlie,' he pants between kisses. 'Show me something else.'  
  
'I don't think—'  
  
Harry cuts off whatever Charlie was going to say, because it doesn't sound promising at all, and he can't imagine having to sit here waiting for the rain to stop with a throbbing erection and nothing to do about it. Unless he just starts humping against the blankets and Charlie's stupid sexy abs right now and risks being told off. What he needs is for it to feel better for both of them, and with five layers of wool and quilt between them that’s an unlikely feat. Unless…  
  
Harry grips the blankets in one hand, thinking hard about them being a few feet to the left, and gives them a tug at the same time as he whispers the spell against Charlie's lips. The soft, lumpy barrier between them disappears and he feels a gasp against his mouth before Charlie pulls back a little and stares him in the eye.  
  
'Did you just…?'  
  
'Yeah.'  
  
'Wh—? How?'  
  
Harry doesn't really know how to answer, he doesn't know how it works, it just_ does,_ and besides, he can feel the firm length of Charlie's cock against his balls and it's really fucking distracting. He shrugs.  
  
'I was motivated,' he says, and shifts his hips back so their cocks are aligned, and isn't_ that_ a new and unforgettable sensation?  
  
Charlie's eyes close, his mouth twitching and his fingers digging into Harry's back. 'Careful,' he says.  
  
'Of what?'  
  
'I said I'd let you _kiss _me.'  
  
'Sorry,' Harry says, not sorry at all.  
  
There's something he can try, actually, to persuade Charlie to let him try other things, but it's a little weird and even if his understanding of genetics is correct, there's no guarantee. He's not sure how he feels about using his knowledge of Ginny, and even Ron to a degree, to get off with Charlie. But there's a high chance his neck is sensitive to touch, and in particular, a very firm bite, almost where his shoulder is. He's seen marks on Ron more than once since he and Hermione got together. And if he can get half the reaction out of Charlie as he did Ginny, then he might be able to get this done. The distant, dangling carrot of shoving Malfoy against a wall and not being too scared to follow through is inspiring.  
  
Harry leans in and presses his mouth to Charlie's bottom lip, waiting for him to re-engage. He puts ten fingertips to his chest and inches them toward Charlie's throat. There's a huff of breath and a tiny swipe of tongue and they slowly, slowly, build. Harry keeps his hips still even though he wants to rut his brains out, and he keeps his fingers moving, tracing lines all over Charlie's chest and neck and shoulders, and he was right — the shiver of pleasure is unmistakable. The side of his neck, soft and freckled, is ticklish.  
  
A hand skims up and down his spine, coming back to rest over his tailbone and Harry wonders if Charlie's remembering that he started it, the frotting, and maybe it's still a good idea, except he's told Harry not to now, so that means he can't either. Harry hopes he's kicking himself.  
  
He hopes it hard as he disengages from Charlie's mouth and kisses his chin instead, the delicate underside of his jaw, twisting to get a better angle. Charlie leans away with a soft growl, giving him better access, and Harry can't help it — he presses his hips down, grinding forward, nipping at the pale skin with his lips. He's treated to an audible catch of breath and nothing else, not until he works his way to the spot where shoulder meets neck, and drags his teeth along the muscle.  
  
Charlie sighs and his hips twitch and Harry gets a strong sense of him giving up the pretense he's only doing this as a favour. He keeps working on his neck, licking and sucking and teasing with his teeth. He feels a hand in his hair, gentle, then not, a quick tug and a throaty sound and the careful rising pressure from under him as Charlie thrusts up in a tight, controlled arc.  
  
Harry runs spidery fingers up the other side of Charlie's neck and bites down on muscle, grinding his hips in time.  
_  
'Harry.'  
_  
'Mmm-hmm.'  
  
'Are you sure you want to do this?'  
  
'Do what?'  
  
Charlie huffs, exasperated, and moves.  
  
Harry isn't really sure how, but he ends up in the air, and then on his back, at the opposite end of the couch. His legs are splayed wide and Charlie's settling between them, the bobbing evidence of his arousal simultaneously frightening and invigorating as it slots in beside Harry's own. He curses his decision to wear jeans, the thickness of the fabric no doubt hiding half the sensation. Then he considers how long it's been since anyone rubbed themselves against him and thinks maybe that's a good thing. Charlie's forearms come down either side of his head, and the press of his weight pins Harry to the couch. It’s weird and amazing and he wants this for sure, to be held down and smothered in wild, sexy dragon tamer. He’s feeling pretty confident about wanting men in general right now.  
  
'Harry, remember how I said you should talk about things before you do them?' Charlie whispers, and the feeling of confidence wanes.  
  
'Remember how I implied I'd rather die?'  
  
'Say it, or I'm not doing it.'  
  
‘I hate you,’ Harry breathes.  
  
‘You hate me, _and…’  
_  
Harry closes his eyes against the horror of saying it out loud. ‘And I want you to hump me?’  
  
Charlie leans down and nips his earlobe. ‘Good boy,’ he breathes, and Harry wonders what the fuck he’s got himself in for.  
  
Intensity, as it turns out. Overwhelming everythingness by way of touch, and solid weight and a dozen sinful sounds groaned against the shell of his ear. Every one of them makes his gut blaze with euphoria. His limbs seem to be trembling, even wrapped around Charlie’s shoulders and waist and his dick is having the time of its life. There’s a feral sort of filth to the whole thing. Base urges driving them to rut shamelessly against one another, panting so hard they can’t even kiss anymore.  
  
Harry is lost in sensation, hips working on their own and fingers clutching at the thick layers of jumper stretched across Charlie’s back. He wants more — skin, heat, the smooth slide of two bodies entwined. He tugs at the fabric, just a little. Wonders if it’s rude to banish someone’s clothes. Wonders if trying to undress Charlie will be a step too far — the line in the sand that marks the moment they stop and back off. Harry doesn’t want to stop, and if Charlie backs off now he might cry.  
  
A hot breath flares across his neck and the stiff tickle of stubble makes his skin tingle. Charlie opens his mouth and closes his lips around the exact same spot Harry had been taking advantage of earlier and the fist that Harry has buried in the light red jumper digs in deeper, making a bold move, almost without thought. A semi-conscious pull, a tensing of muscles, the innocent result of being devoured without warning.  
  
Charlie doesn’t seem to mind. His hand is rough at the waist of Harry’s own jumper, and the cool spread of his palm sliding under the hem and over his ribs comes with a fresh wave of mindless want, so that without knowing how, their clothes are bunched up a little so the planes of their stomachs touch. Harry’s not really sure he can take much more. His neck is being nibbled and licked and sucked at, his chest explored with a palpable need, his dick is so hard he wonders if he has blood anywhere else in his body at all.  
  
And then Charlie sits up just enough to whip his top off — both jumpers and a shirt at once — and flings it all on the ground. He grabs Harry’s. ‘Up,’ he says and unpeels all three layers at once, dislodging Harry’s glasses and adding them to the pile as well. Harry is half naked, lying under a 26-year-old sex god, and more than likely destined to come in his pants pretty soon. And he’s apparently pretty damn gay for it. Like, women, obviously, still awesome. Soft and boobs and nice and everything, but this… this is also very, very amazing and good.  
  
Charlie smiles at him, but says nothing, just curls his hips so their dicks slide together and leans in for a kiss, his weight slowly coming off his arms and settling on Harry’s chest, hot and smooth with a wiry thatch of curling hair between his pecs Harry hasn’t seen before. Certainly hasn’t had anything like it smashed against his heart in his whole life, and it’s just one more thing that’s weird and wonderful and overwhelming.  
  
It’s the combination of that, and the rhythmic friction, and the weight of him, and the expert, toe-curling,_ thing_ he’s doing with his tongue that puts Harry on that plateau, and he knows that if nothing changes from exactly as it is now, if Charlie just _keeps going,_ that’ll be it, and Harry will come in his pants and he’ll love every fucking second of it until the endorphins wane and the mortification of having ejaculated all over your ex-girlfriend’s and best mate’s brother will erupt and he’ll be left wondering if it was all worth it. Best option is if he makes sure, somehow, that Charlie creams himself too. Whatever that takes.  
  
Even if he has to wank him off through his trackie bottoms, watch the blossom of his come spread across the light grey fabric, clutched in Harry’s fist.  
_  
Oh fuck.  
_  
The thought of it tips him over and he convulses, his every nerve alight, every grind of flesh and pant of breath, and slick curl of tongue suddenly too much and not enough and he’s filling his pants with wet heat and bliss, gasping for air as Charlie holds him, slowing his hips til he’s just teasing. Coaxing every last twitch, every drop, out of him, before leaving one last kiss on his lips and pushing himself up.  
  
He’s a little blurry without the benefit of corrective lenses, and it probably helps, if Harry’s honest with himself, because he doesn’t know if he’d have the courage to grab Charlie’s cock otherwise. He hears his surprise more than he sees it. And when he goes quiet a second later and thrusts his hard, grey-clad cock gently into Harry’s fist, the reality of it sets in, and just because it isn’t sharp and clear visually, doesn’t mean the thing happening in his hand isn’t one hundred percent real. Harry squeezes gently.  
  
Charlie’s breath catches and Harry imagines his expression warring between pleasure and uncertainty. This is Harry’s choice though, and Charlie’s welcome to get up and walk away if he doesn’t want it to happen. Like he said, Harry’s hardly going to be the one taking advantage. He feels like he is, because he’s learning how to do this, but it’s Charlie’s dick, Charlie who’s about to come. Hopefully. Though how hard can it be to wank someone else off? Harry’s done it to himself through tracksuit bottoms before, it’s nice, and the wet patch_ is_ oddly satisfying. Not that he’ll be able to see it properly without his glasses.  
  
He sets a rhythm, not too fast, waiting 'til Charlie’s breathing changes back to like it was before, erratic, desperate. He’s flexing his hips, almost whining as Harry refuses to speed up. It’s what he likes himself, the steady not-quite-quick-enough rhythm. Turns out it’s good for others, too. He swipes his thumb across the head of Charlie’s cock and feels a little wetness in the fabric, immediately wondering what it tastes like. He’s tried his own, of course, but he expects everyone tastes a bit different. He reaches with his free hand to grab Charlie’s hip and pull him closer, succeeding by dumb luck if the surprised noise from above is anything to go by. He doesn’t hesitate, since he might be on borrowed time, just props himself up on his elbow and leans in, curling up to run his tongue over the dark spot he can now see, quite clearly, where the end of Charlie’s cock is.  
  
_ ‘Fuck. Harry.’ _  
  
Answering seems pointless, so he licks him again, hard, the faint, saline-like flavour not too dissimilar to what he expected. His hand is still wrapped around him, still keeping the same rhythm, but Charlie’s twitching in his hand, thrusting into his fist, his own hand gripping the back of the couch. The dark patch is bigger now, a mixture of precum and saliva. Harry wants to put it in his mouth, with a singular determination that makes him wonder how he could ever have thought he was remotely straight. So he edges forward and runs his fist down to the base and fits his lips around the crown of Charlie’s cock, feeling the spongy swell of the head and the ripple of foreskin through the fabric. He tightens his lips and bobs his head once before he feels a large hand on the back of his head, gently holding him there. Charlie pumps into Harry’s hand and his mouth in quick hard bursts, the strange friction of the fabric at odds with the delicate skin in his mouth.  
  
Charlie is making all manner of incredible sounds — a desperate grunt, a hiss of overwhelmed pleasure, a cry of broken of joy that falls from his mouth just as Harry feels a jerk in his fist and his mouth is immediately filled with fluid. Charlie’s coming for him, there, in a treehouse in a storm, pulsing right through his clothes, and it’s not weird at all, it’s awesome.  
  
Harry holds still ‘til Charlie’s done, giving him one last, gentle squeeze as he lies back on the couch, unable to hold back his satisfied grin. Charlie looks wiped-out, and a little smug, and like he might be mentally tallying the days left of the Christmas break.  
  
‘So,’ Harry says. ‘What are you teaching me tomorrow?’  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Potterwatch: An Unauthorised Broadcast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22402354) by [Thunder_of_Dragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunder_of_Dragons/pseuds/Thunder_of_Dragons)


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